


The Lucky One

by What_the_em



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: AU Based off The Lucky One, Consulting Detective John, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_the_em/pseuds/What_the_em
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the war, John found a picture of Sherlock Holmes. He was on the way to the jeep, 'moving out' as they say, when he saw the white photo peeking out of the rubble. He kneeled down, using his chaffed thumb to slide the dirt off the man. That's when the bomb hit. Flying right over his head, blowing them all to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home (Not So Sweet) Home

THIS IS A JOHNLOCK AU BASED ON "THE LUCKY ONE" WITH ZAC EFRON

 

"You know, the smallest thing can change a life. In the blink of an eye, something happens by chance - and when you least expect it - since we're on a course that you could have never planned, into a future you never imagined. Where will it take you? That's the journey of our lives: our search for the light. But sometimes, finding the light means you must past through the deepest darkness. At least, that's how it was for me." 

 

During the war, John found a picture of Sherlock Holmes. 

He was on the way to the jeep, 'moving out' as they say, when he saw the white photo peeking out of the rubble. He kneeled down, using his chaffed thumb to slide the dirt off the man. That's when the bomb hit. Flying right over his head, blowing them all to the ground.

By the time the remaining were in the jeep, the men were fonding over the photo. 

"You've gotta find him! Thank him! You're alive because of him, and I'm only still here because I followed your sorry ass!" One of the men yell cheerfully, patting his shoulder hard, handing him an old cane. "We'll get you a better one once we get situated. 

"Uh. No, no I'm alright, Lestrade. I think I'm just gonna go stay with my sister." John says, looking down at his leg, the bullet hole, then back at the road.

That's when another bomb hit the road in front of them.

Flipping the car as they try to swerve off the road. John got a large piece of shrapnel in his shoulder, whilst the others were knocked unconscious. They all were stripped at base camp. Hair buzzed, and given back their belongings before they were shipped off to London. 

John went to Harry's house. Dropping his bags when he sees his sister running out to him, her girlfriend just behind, looking confused. 

"Johnny!" She cries, burying her head in the crook of his neck, him gasping in pain and stepping back. 

"Sorry. I uh, just a scratch." He mutters, and she pulls away his jacket, seeing a gauze wrapped wound, leaking blood. 

"Oh my god I'm so sorry I-" she starts, but John shushes her, urging her inside. 

He left the next day. 

Harry's partner tried to wake him up, but she scared him, and that resulted in him holding her in a chokehold. Of course Harry wasn't upset. She knows how much he has lost, and didn't hold it against him, but he glanced at the picture again, only knowing one thing. 

He's going to find this man. 

**********

Johns POV--> 2 weeks later

"Have you ever seen this man?" I asked sternly, still in war mode. Everyone looks guilty nowadays. I feel like I can read a person. Their emotions. 

"Uh-what? Who?" A bloke asks, looking up. 

Oh my god. 

"John." He says, breathless. "Captain John Hamish Watson." 

I nod, showing the picture again. "Have you seen this man, Mike?" 

His eyebrows scrunch, but then he looks up. "Why, that's Sherlock Holmes!" 

I smirk. 

Sherlock Holmes. 

"He works for Scotland Yard. Consulting Detective. He's fantastic! He can deduce anyone, by just looking at ya." He pauses, then continues.

"Why John?" 

"This-this man saved my life in Afganistan. It's, it's a long story." 

Mike Stamford scoot himself over on the bench. "I've got time." 

I sat down. "It was in the morning, after a night raid. I just found it. In a war, finding something like that, is like finding an angel in hell. I promised myself that if I made it out, I would find that man and thank him for saving my life."

Mike laid a hand gently on my shoulder, and stood up. "Come on. I'll show you where he is."


	2. Meeting The FlatMate

Mike lead John into St.Bartholomew's Hospital, into the morgue where he was met with two people. 

1) A young woman, with red hair, and a nac for wearing outfits that don't particularly match. Two parents, boyfriend who is secretly gay, a terrier, brown, and a dying grandmother. [Johns Deduction] 

2) The man in the photo. Thick, black curls, sharp cheekbones, and a long coat. Bright greenish-blue eyes, and a brother who thinks he is smarter than him, and is also dating a DI. 

"Mr.Holmes!" Mike said gleefully, John still scowering over the two people, trying to view around the microscope that Sherlock just so happened to walk out from behind of. 

Sherlock and John sized each other up, and the information in Johns mind clicked. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock questioned right as John asked,

"Uncle or Father?"

They both looked taken aback, but the Consulting detective asked again.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

"Uh, Afghanistan." John says shyly, noticing a small spot of blood seeping through his pant leg. "Shit." He mumbled, shoving the photo in his pocket, kneeling down carefully, fixing the bandage through his jeans. 

"Not long ago, then?" Sherlock says, looking at his leg, then his shoulder. 

John shakes his head. "Two weeks ago. Now, you going to answer my question?" 

"Uncle." He states. "How did you know?" He then asks, a bit confused on how anyone could be like him besides Mycroft. 

"Your shirt. Obviously you didn't buy it, it's too expensive, you don't care for expensive things, I mean look at your coat. It's purple, brothers favorite then. As soon as I came in, you rolled your eyes, you despise your sibling , thought I was him. Ready to shoo me out, when you looked up, you seemed confused. A Consulting Detective like you , well you're brilliant. Anyway, yes, Uncle. And don't think I'm sexist, it's from the size of the trigger, okay? You're Uncle was recently in the military, I know that from the small spot of chaffing on your right index finger, gun, not yours, the Scotland Yard wouldn't allow an amatuer to carry a gun. Especially without a license. Shot in the dark, yes. Wrong?" John said, quite proud of himself, when he wasn't provided with an answer. "Didn't think so." 

"Amatuer?" Sherlock scoffs, turning towards him. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq." 

John nods, waiting for the detective to continue. 

" I know you're a Marine, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.Then there's your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for flatshare, you wouldn't waste money on this, it's a gift then. Scratches - not one, but many, over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A man certainly wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." 

"The engraving." 

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to. So, brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment, the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then; six months old, and he's just giving it away? If she'd left him, he'd have kept it. People do, you know - sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to keep in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, yet you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"I guess I shouldn't to have called you an amateur."John says, blushing a little. "You're brilliant." 

Sherlock shrugs. " That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?" Mike asks, joining the conversation.

"Piss off!" John and Sherlock say in unison, looking at each other.

Mike laughs. 

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked finally.

"No. I won't mind you playing it while you think. Nights on end? I've dealt with worse. Though, I would appreciate you not smoking in the flat." 

"I qui-" 

"Yes. I know you 'quit', but the stash in the bookcase says differently." John persists, leaning on his uninjured leg. "Stick with the patches." 

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock said simply, swaggering towards the door, covering up the small smile of pride he had for the Marine. "Tonight. 7 o'clock." 

"Oi! Sherlock, you were wrong about something." John calls out the door, the detective turning, running toward the soldier, not stopping until their noses were almost touching.

"What did I get wrong?" He asks gravely. 

"Harry. It's short for Harriet." 

Sherlock flails out his arms, his fingers running through his dark curls. "Sister. Sister! It's always something!" 

John chuckles, walking out with Sherlock. Forgetting about the photo.

"Dinner?" Sherlock suggests. 

"Starving."


	3. Great, another Freak?

Sherlocks POV

"So this is it? It's in a prime spot, must be expensive." 

"Ah, the landlady, Ms.Hudson owes me a favor. Her husband was on trial about to be executed. I helped her. " I say, opening the door. 

"So, you stopped her husband from being executed?" He asks , but puts his hand up, stopping me from answering. 

"What is it, John?" I ask as he tilts his head looking everywhere but my body. Around my head, shoulder, legs. 

"No no no." He mutters, smirking. "You ensured it, didn't you?" 

"Oh! Sherlock!" Ms.Hudson squeals, bringing me in for a hug. "Who's this?" She asks, embracing John, her hand on his lower back, near his..

"Captain John Hamish Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." I say, and John glances at me sideways with a dopey grin. 

I shook my head, smiling. 

"There is an extra room upstairs. If you'll be needing two rooms." She says with a knowing look in her eyes. 

I told her I was gay, and she thinks she can pick out a boyfriend for me. 

"Stupid!" I whisper, and they both look at me, startled. 

John must have answered her, because she left after I looked up. 

"You alright?" 

"I'm fine. Just.- I'm fine." 

John sat down on the red chair, his chair, and pulled his laptop out of his bag. 

I lean over his shoulder, the hurt one, looking at the screen.

'John H. Watson's Blog'

He is way to good to have just come back from war. 

In the 'subject' line he typed two words. 

"Sherlock Holmes"

"Writing about me already, I see." 

My phone chimed, and I practically sprinted to it. 

DI Lestrade: 

Heard you got a new partner. Can't wait! We got a triple homicide for you. @ Speedys next door. 

"You're a Marine."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

John grins at this. "Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

"Well... Yes."

"A bit of trouble too, I'll bet."

"Of course. Yes. Enough... for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes!"

I swung open the door to Speedys, moving out of the way to let in John, but keeping it held open with my arm, making sort of a tunnel for him to walk under. 

"Thanks." He mutters, turning red. 

"What've we got, Lestrade?" I ask, and John lifts up his head, his eyes widening. 

"Well it's- Captain?" Lestrade says unbelievably, slowly putting his notepad down, making his way towards John. 

Captain? Oh oh.

"Sergeant?" They both salute, and then he lifts John up during their hug. 

"Shit. Remember that crash?" John strains out, still in the air. 

The way the DI was holding him, was both harming his shoulder and putting weight on his leg. 

"Yeah! When I woke up I had a buzz and you were gone! You remember that picture? That man saved your life! " Lestrade puts him down. 

John whispered in his ear, the detectives eyes widening, and he glanced at me briefly. 

"I thought he looked familiar." Lestrade finally says. 

"Well, since I was in the passenger seat..." He stops, pulling away his shirt, unwrapping the gauze, revealing a very new scar. Pink and large. 

I wince. 

"Shrapnel." He states, looking at me ashamed. "Threw myself in front of the driver. " 

Lestrade patted his shoulder roughly, and I resisted tackling him. 

Stupid. 

"Anyways!" John says. "Triple-Homicide...Body?"

He leads us to a dark room with black lights, flicking them on to reveal a man in his late 30's, slight indentation in the neck, indicating that there is something stuck in the throat, and his face smiling. 

"He was poisoned." John says, looking at Anderson, Lestrade, and Donovan. 

"Uh, who are you?" Donovan asks snidely.

"John Watson." 

"My partner." I say. 

"Finally got yourself a boyfriend, have you?" Anderson says sarcastically, and I slam the door in his face. 

"It was a plant. If you look in his mouth, you should see remnants of the leave." I say, caught off guard 

"Yes." He say, kneeling with his injured leg out, opening the victims mouth. "The water dropworts, or Oenanthe, are a genus of plants in the family Apiaceae. Most of the species grow in damp ground, in marshes or in water. It would explain the smile from the time of death." 

Everyone in the room was stunned. 

John laughs awkwardly. "What?" 

"No-nothing. It's just. That was-uh." I stutter. 

"Great. Another Freak." Sally Donovan groans.

"Donovan!" Lestrade yells, but Sally just shrugs.

"I've only know Sherlock Holmes for a little while, but I trust him more than I would any of you. He is brilliant, and capable of deducing anyone. I'm a soldier, not a Consulting Detective. Sherlock is fantastic!"

"Thank you, Captain." I say, making John smile. It was beautiful. 

"Anyway. Sherlock? Who did it?" 

"The sister." I say, and a gleaming John Watson starts to follow me out. 

"I don't see-" 

"You DO see! You just do not observe!" I yell. 

John sighs, turning around, still walking. "Look in the pocket."

When back at the flat, I start asking questions, an experiment, if you will.

"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live."

I sigh. "Use your imagination!"

"I don't have to."

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry John. I forgot you, uh." 

Did I really just say that? After all he's been through. 

Again.

Stupid.


	4. Remembering the photo

Sherlocks POV  
**********

John doesn't sleep either. 

I mean, occasionally, he "rests his eyes" but otherwise, his pulse never slows.

Like me.

"Would you hand me my phone?" I ask, looking through my microscope.

"It's in your shirt pocket, get it yourself." He says, then continuing his typing. 

I scoff, taking out my phone, seeing another message from Lestrade. 

 

I can't believe John is your new partner! He was great in Afghan! Always saving peoples lives, but paying the price. Say, you've been living together a few weeks, surely he's showed you the picture right? 

"Picture. What picture." I mutter, glancing up at John. 

"What was that?" Johns asks, looking over at me calmly. 

I try to deduce. 

Happy.

Content.

Nightmares.

War.

Selfless.

Guilt.

Picture? 

There is a slight indentation where a picture could easily fit. 

"John. Who is in that picture?"

He looked confused for a second. As if he had meant to say something long ago, but forgot. 

He stood up and walked over to me. He was wearing the same pants as the day we met. Whoever is in this photo, had to be important to him. It would have water damage, he left it in the pocket of. The jeans, having been washed at least 5 times since that day. 

"I didn't know how to tell you." He says quietly, pulling out the picture, twirling it in his hand, not revealing the face of the masked man.

"Tell me what?" 

"It's you." He says, stopping the twirling, to show...me. 

I tear it out of his hand, flipping it to see 3 words on the back of the stained photo.

'Good Luck, uncle.' -SH

I gasp, pushing it back in his hands. 

"How do you have this?" 

"I-" 

I glare at him. 

He was on the verge of tears. 

"It was after a night raid." He starts slowly, his voice wavering slightly. "The whole team was scowering through the rubble. Recovering bodies and such. When I came upon your picture. I kneeled down to pick it up, wiping off the dirt, and I saw the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. That's when the bombs flew over my head. If I hadn't found you, Uhm, sorry, your picture, I-I would have died. Well, Nearly my whole crew did. After we had all recovered, they buzzed our hair, gave back our belongings, and sent on our merry way." He chuckled emotionless, and I felt the warmth fall down my cheeks. "I promised myself that day. That if I ever found you, I would thank you for saving my life."

I was about to speak, but nothing came out. He kept talking. 

"Finding something like that, in a place like that... It's like finding an angel in hell." 

"I'm happy that it kept you alive." I say finally, stepping closer to my Marine.

"Who had your picture?" He asks, and my eyes widen. 

Right. 

"He was an Army Doctor. Stationed in Afghanistan. His name was Mycroft." 

"Mycroft Holmes." We say in unison. 

"How-" 

"He fixed my shoulder after the crash." John says, and I nod. 

"I know what happened to him."

I stay silent for him to continue.

"It was on the same night. The Army had sent him in to our base after the first few bombs. One of my men had been shot and he went back for him. He died giving him CPR. Saved him too. He had a tattoo on his arm. Playing cards. They called him-" 

"Aces." We say together again. 

I take another step closer. 

"What are you.." He says slowly.

I lean down, my forehead against his. 

"You are my Marine. And I am your high-functioning sociopath." 

"So I'm an exception to the sociopath part." he says, and I smile.

He starts to lean in, when we hear a gunshot, and John rushes down the stairs. 

"John!" I yell, and follow after him, seeing Officer Moran, horribly drunk, with his gun pulled on him in the middle of the sidewalk.

There was a bullet hole in the Farmers Market stand, and fragment over the gravel.

I slowly sneak behind him, but John shakes his head slightly. 

"Well hello! So you're Sherlocks pet!" He says in a sing-song voice, using his thumb to cock the gun.

"Just put the gun down." John say warily, no doubt plotting ways to safely take away his gun. 

Moran shakes it dangerously, shoving it to Johns head, when I whimper. 

"Sherlock Holmes!" He yells, pointing it at me instead, John shooting into action, taking his gun, and shoving him to the ground in one swift move. Then completely disassembling his gun and handing it to Lestrade, who had conveniently walked up, his gun pulled on Moran. 

I grip John waist, pulling his towards me, while Lestrade takes Sebastian away. 

"That was hot." I murmur in his ear, sending shivers visibly down his spine. 

He turns to me, leaving a scorching kiss on my lips, pouncing into a cab he had motioned for as he distracted me. 

"New case." He says plainly. "Coming?" 

I've never gotten into a cabbie faster.


	5. That was right on my bins!

Lestrades POV  
**********

"End of last year, Sir Harry Downing died. Left the house to the older son, Jack. House to stay in the family though - it was to go to Keith, the younger brother, if Jack died without having any kids. Last month, Jack was found dead in the garden pond. He'd no reason to kill himself but no signs of a struggle." I start explaining to my officers, when I hear Sherlock and John enter the Yard loudly. 

"High level of alcohol in his bloodstream. Appears like a tragic accident. Looks like Keith gets the house. Jack's wife, Jane, not convinced. Keith spends the week in Edinburgh and only returns to London for weekends. Even though Keith was in Scotland on the night Jack died, she's certain he was responsible for her husband's death. He'd definitely got a motive." Sherlock announces, and I see Donovan stalking back to her office. 

"Sherlock." John says, causing the detective to spin around, coat flapping. "He was found in the pond in the ground near the side wall of one of the smaller buildings in the grounds. No windows so nobody could have thrown anything out at the victim. No footprints in the flower bed. Path is loose gravel - fairly narrow but not dangerously so. Jack couldn't swim." 

" He could have slipped on the gravel and fallen in? Looks like an accident." I say, the officers that were once around me dispersing into their offices. 

"Don't guess things, Lestrade." He mocks, taking John and leaving the station, mumbling something that sounded like, "This obviously isn't his division." Under his breath. 

Johns POV  
********** (BAMF John coming up in this chapter.) 

 

I was sitting, enjoying a cuppa as Sherlock was out interrogating Keith, when Ms.Hudson trudged up the stairs, hand covering a deep purple bruise on her cheek, and a large man following closely behind. 

My military instincts kicked in, and I pulled her behind me as the man went to grab her, pinning him against the wall easily. 

"What did you do to her?" I sneered, my forearm pushing harder against his throat, my other hand checking his pockets, coming up with a large can of Mace pepper spray. I toss it aside as he yanks an arm out, upper cutting my jaw before I deliver a kick to his groin, pulling over a chair, taping him to it tightly. 

"I ask again, what did you do to her?" 

"She wouldn't tell me here you were, Mr.Holmes." He said with a thick Russian accent, but decided to play off being Sherlock. 

"And why do you need me?" I ask absentmindedly as I deduce him. 

 

Mid-thirties, assassin, abandoned, hired killer, father, divorced, hateful, alone. 

 

"A man hired me. Says he wants to burn the heart out of you." 

Now I was interested. "Name?" I ask, knowing for certain he wouldn't tell. 

Worth a shot.

"Don't think so, Mister Holmes."

I pulled out my phone, seeing a text from Sherlock. 

'Have now met Keith - it was definitely not an accident.'

With a giggle, I call Lestrade. 

"What is it, John? Sherlock annoying you already" he greets.

"No, no. I have a man here, mid-thirties and divorced. He thought it would be wise to back-hand my landlady in order to get to me. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance..." 

I hear a gasp and typing before he answers. "Is everyone okay?" He rushes.

"Oh, no no no no no, we're fine. No, it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured." 

I see the man look up confused. 

"What injuries has he sustained?" 

"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung. He fell out of a window." I say, hanging up, hearing sirens in the distance. I walk over, pulling up the glass window, smirking as I hear the man whining. 

After many, many tosses, I went downstairs to meet with Ms.Hudson and an amused looking Sherlock. 

"That was right in my bins!" She exclaims, when I hear a knock at the door. 

"Come in, Lestrade! We are all dying to hear you blab." Sherlock rants, and I chuckle as I tend to the land lady's wounds. 

Once the burglar was packed in the ambulance conveyance, Lestrade turned to me. "And exactly how many times did he fall out of a window?"

"Oh, it's all a bit of a blur, detective inspector. I lost count." I say laughing, and I see Sherlock holding in his smirk as the officers leave.

As soon as the door clicked, he was over at my side, scowering eyes around my face, and the bruise forming on my chin.

"I'm fine." I whisper, but he stays where he is.

"You should have called me." He says, "But I believe I would have done the same with that wretched man." He growls in disgust, and I lay a hand on his cheek. 

"I'm fine..tea?" 

"Yes, yes thank you. Two-" 

"Sugars, yes." I interject, and he smiles proudly. 

When we sat down, I questioned Sherlock about his findings on the case.

He seemed to perk up at that, placing down his cuppa on the side table, "Well, I spoke to Jane again. Got her to tell me everything she could about the victim. He was boringly mundane. One thing I noticed when she was setting the table - she spilt some salt so she threw it over her shoulder. Apparently it's bad luck to spill salt... I asked if her husband believed in similar nonsense and she confirmed he did. Also asked her about his drinking - he didn't drink that much, usually just beer. later, I returned to the house and examined the flower bed. Nothing. Examined the gravel... and took some away to examine in closer detail." 

"The Yard showed me some photos while you were gone; Anderson sent them to me." I say, placing the phone with the photos in his hand. He opened his mouth to talk again, but I spoke first. 

"Traces of green paint in the gravel. In two specific patches, about a metre apart. A ladder. No windows in the wall so it's an unlikely place to put a ladder. And if you were to put a ladder there, you'd put it in the flower bed, not on the path. Donovan spoke to the house gardener - there's no green ladder on the property. Therefore, the ladder was brought to the house and placed there for some other reason." 

"Yes, I see. Keith knew his brother was superstitious. He arranged for a friend to put a ladder there - knowing Jack would walk around it. There was a bottle of Scotch in the house which Keith had sent to Jack - knowing he wasn't much of a drinker. Jack drinks the whisky, gets drunk, goes for a walk, loose gravel, dark night - sees the ladder. Bad luck to walk under the ladder, so walks around it - into the pond where he drowns." 

I smile, scooting closer the the consulting detective, my eyes fluttering closed. "I'll text Jane later." I mumble into his shoulder. "Case closed." 

 

No ones POV  
**********

[In the police car after the paramedics assisted the wounds of Neilson Vandelli aka the burglar.] 

"Why're you so quiet back there? Cat got your tongue?!" The hysterical officers spat from the front seat back at the accused, bursting into a fit of laughter. 

Little did they know they forgot to put up the protective chain wiring in the middle of the refurbished car, giving the assailant free range to strangle both men from behind. 

Unlocking his door, he abandoned the wrecked police vehicle on the side of the road, fortunately finding a lighter and using a gun to blow up the fuel tank, setting fire to the metal and the men inside. 

" Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes." He says manically, walking away from the crime scene, the fire crackling behind him, with one image scorched in his mind. 

Captain John Watson. 

 

The retired Marine will soon find out what it meant when he left Neilson to believe he was, in fact, Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Their Last Night

Johns POV  
**********

"New case!" Lestrade announces as he gallops into the flat. I deduce him easily, Sherlock having showed me his 'Mind Palace' technique. 

"Another fight with the wife?" I ask sadly, crossing my legs from the couch, not looking up. 

"What?-Uh, well, yes, yes. Um." He stutters helplessly, and I see Sherlock get up, glaring at the men Lestrade had had follow him into the flat.

He gestures to them. "First get rid of your boys." 

"Why?"

"I dislike being outnumbered. It's makes for too much stupid in the room."

"Sherlock." I urge, remembering he is still on rough terms concerning the force and the hospital. 

 

One week ago. Molly's Party  
*************************************

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?"

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and you're giving him a gift."

"Take a day off..." John says to The DI, turning to grab some tea from Harry, who was whining about her recent breakup with Clara, when he hears Sherlock deducing Molly. 

"Shut up and have a drink." Lestrade slurs, plopping onto the sofa by the stairs.

"Oh come on, surely you've all seen the present on top of the bag? Perfectly wrapped with a bow, all the others are slap-dash at best. For someone special then. Shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has loooove on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all, that would suggest hopes of a long-term relationship. And the fact that she's seeing him tonight is obvious from her makeup and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breas..."

Sherlocks voice trails off as he opens the tag and 

"Dearest Harriet Love Molly xxx"

Sherlock glances at John who was now looking at him and Molly with wide, curious eyes. 

When he looked back at Molly, she looked terrified. 

"Only three x's?" Sherlock tries to change the subject, "Surely you could do better than that for this...person that you feel so strongly for." 

John noticed that Sherlock was nervous; the trail of sweat across his hair line, and the way he was looking around anywhere but John.

"Awe Molly! Who is the special lad?" Lestrade says, a hint of jealousy slipping though his fake facade of feelings for his wife. 

Her eyes widened, and she slid the package back into the bag. "No, you really don't need-I mean it's not serious!" She persists, but John grabs the bag out of her hand gently but sternly, he unfolds the tag and gasps. 

Silently, John walks up to the counter by Harry, replacing her alcohol with tea, then retreating to his room. 

"What was-" 

"Nothing, George." Sherlock strikes. 

"It's Greg." 

"Whatever Jeff." He says again, staring up the stairs to talk to John when he sees his boyfriend jumping down into the parlor with a small object in his hand, walking over to Molly.

"Give this to her when she's sober. She'll love it. Please take her home." He whispers into he ear, and she nods enthusiastically, and goes to take her into a cabbie. 

Sherlock was grinning when John looked back. Lestrade and Ms.Hudson already gone home also. 

"What? I'm still angry with you." John says with a pout. 

"Why? Look, I'm sorry but I didn't think you would react so..." 

"Calmly? Believe me, I didn't think I would either. But, when I saw her name on that tag..I just thought of how perfect she would be for her." John admits, and he feels guilty for almost shouting. 

"I agree, love. They really do compliment each other don't they?" 

John did a double take. 

"Did you just call me Love?"

The consulting detectives eyebrows furrowed. "I did. A bit not good?" 

"No! No, I like it. Love it." The Marine replies quickly, looking down to cover the blush that starts across his cheeks. 

Sherlock grins, plopping down in his seat, pulling his boyfriend down with him.

"Someone's cheeky." John teases, tucking his head between his detectives shoulder and chin as he is carried upstairs. 

They lay there all night, sneaking in nighttime kisses and caresses, not knowing that they would be separated before they wake.

Molly's POV  
**********  
Once we got to my flat, it was chaos. 

Harriet had come down from her alcohol high, and was now crying into my shoulder. 

"Shh. Shh it's okay, I'm here." I whisper into her hair, pulling her close. 

She pulled back. "Why are you even here?" 

I felt a tug in my chest, trying not to show how much that had hurt. 

Her eyes watered again, and she gripped my dress tighter, sobbing harder. 

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Not like that. I'm so happy you're here. You're the only one." She says, wiping her eyes before she sits up, leaning over to get the Telly's remote. 

"Uh." She mutters nervously, and I couldn't help but notice how cute it was when she bit her lip. "Do you wanna stay? Here, I mean." 

"I'd love to." I say with a large smile, and she giggles, getting up to get popcorn. 

I lean back in the sofa, taking off the tear-soaked sweater I had over the dress, placing it near my purse. I take the moment to use the wall mirror she had on the side room wall. Now I was only wearing a strapless dress, my hair now pulled into a messy bun. I sigh, walking into the kitchen. 

"Would you happen to have a change of clothes I could borrow?" I ask sweetly, and she nods, leading me into her large bedroom.

"Wear whatever you'd like!" She says, returning to the kitchen. 

I slip off my dress, folding and placing it on her bed.

I open a drawer, finding rainbow cloth shorts, and slip them on, then finding a V neck neon pink camisole, slipping it on over my head. As I go to pull it over my chest, Harry creaks open the door. 

"Hey, Mol? Do you like butte-" She stops abruptly, and I look to find her staring at my bare chest, trailing down over the shorts and back to my eyes, flushing crimson. 

I slip it all the way on, still locking eyes with Harriet. She starts to walk towards me slowly. 

"Harry? What are you-?" I am muffled when she puts her lips to mine, pulling away just as fast. 

"I'm sorry!" She yells, and goes to leave when I grip her wrist, gathering my courage. 

"Don't be." I purr, and trust me, that took moxy. I then grab the bowl of popcorn out of her hands, winking as I sit on the couch. 

"Coming?" 

She stood for a second, then smirked, sitting next to me on the couch. And halfway through the film, I feel her fingers intertwine with mine. Like they were made just for me.


End file.
